


Silence is Golden (and you've got my hopes up)

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, D/s relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Short Fics, Spanking, Unresolved Angst, handjobs, various - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-22 16:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12486240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Short one-offs for a variety of pairings, based on dialogue prompts received on my tumblr.





	1. Corner Store [Stozier] {G}

**Author's Note:**

> not much to say except, enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is crying. Stan is suffering. Bill is laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is for hannah, who requested it! (tbh the first couple chapters will be for her, since she requested them, lmao)
> 
> enjoy!

Bill pauses in his writing to look over at his phone; it’s trilling insistently in his bag a few feet away, and has been for the past several minutes. He finally abandons his laptop and trudges over to the bag, digs around, and pulls out his phone. He squints at the caller name with a sigh, but answers nonetheless.

“Yes, R-Richie?”

Immediately, his ears are assaulted by the sound of wet sniffling and struggling gasps of air. Richie inhales noisily, shakily, before starting to talk. _“I lost Stan,”_ he whispers.

Bill closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What?”

Richie sniffles. _“I lost Stan!”_ He says a little louder. Bill winces back from the phone and doesn’t want to think if Richie’s volume continues to rise.

“Okay,” he starts slowly. “E-explain it to me. How did you l-l-lose Stan?” Bill wanders back over to his desk and his laptop. He saves idly, and has half a mind to set his phone down so he can continue writing. He’s not especially concerned by Richie’s call, if it was something really awful, Bill would know. If anything, Richie just sounds drunk—which is a little appalling, given that it’s just past one o’clock on a Tuesday.  
  
_“We were—are—the grocery store!”_ Now, Richie starts to wail. _“We’re at the grocery store and Stan was gonna go get milk but he’s gone!”_ Richie’s words are slurred and heavy with the sounds of his crying. _“He’s gone,”_ he says again before starting to cry in earnest. Bill would laugh if he thought it was the time (he’ll definitely be laughing later).

“How did you manage to lose a thirty-year-old man in a grocery story?” He asks patiently.

Richie inhales deeply to answer, but before he can there’s a yelp, followed by some rustling, and another yelp. Richie has started whimpering again, but he sounds further away than before and distinctly less anguished. There’s more rustling, some beeping that sound like fingers hitting the screen accidentally, before finally—

 _“He didn’t lose me.”_ Stan says. _“He had some teeth pulled today, and he’s on very strong painkillers right now.”_ Stan sighs, long-suffering. _“I went to get milk, and…”_

Now, Bill laughs. He laughs so hard he nearly drops his phone. He almost collects himself, but loses it again when Stan sighs unhappily once more. Eventually, Bill collects himself enough—though with tears in his eyes—to respond.

“So, y-you’re fine? Not missing?”

 _“We’re both fine.”_ Stan says, exasperated. _“Sorry about this, Bill.”_

Bill chuckles. “It’s okay,” he says through a laugh. “No h-harm done.”

There’s an inhale, like Stan might speak, but instead more rustling filters over the speaker. After a minute of muffled sounds, Stan comes back. _“He’s still crying, people are starting to stare. I need to go.”_

Bill chokes back another round of laughter.

 _“We’re still on for this weekend, right?”_ Stan asks in a voice that’s desperately hopeful and tired.

“O-of course,” Bill agrees.

_“Thank god.”_

The line goes dead, leaving Bill to his snickering.


	2. Nothing Distinguished Us From 'Normal' Men [Stozier] {T}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, requested by hannah! here comes some angst, be ready!

Stan has been staring at the flyer for a solid ten minutes. Richie was excited at first, bypassed ‘nervous’ at the three minute marked, and has been teetering on the edge of tearing out his hair ever since. Stan eventually sighs—the first sign of life he’s shown since Richie handed him the fucking paper—and Richie holds his breath. He stops breathing, as if he might shatter Stan, or his concentration, forcing them to start all over. He doesn’t think he could handle that.

Richie swallows uneasily.

“Richie…” Stan draws out his name like it pains him. “What’s this?” He gives the flyer a shake, and belated Richie realizes he seriously wants an answer.

“It’s a flyer, for a pride parade.” Richie replies. He doesn’t _mean_ to sound so meek, so nervous, but it’s all he can manage when faced with the look Stan’s giving him. Stony, unreadable—sending shivers down Richie’s spine but not in a good way. “I thought we could go,” he adds.

Stan’s piercing stare doesn’t relent, and Richie squirms under the scrutiny.

“Why?” Stan asks.

Richie doesn’t snipe back with a pithy response, no matter how much he wants to. He reigns in the urge and keeps his tone level, if still soft. “Because we’re both queer, and dating each other, and I thought it’d be fun for us to go.” Richie wants to snatch the flyer back; he wants to snatch the whole conversation back and rewind to before he even came home. The steadily darkening gaze on Stan’s face isn’t Richie’s favorite. It makes him look ashen, cruel.

Stan sighs again, and Richie bites back a whimper. Stan doesn’t even seem to notice the struggle inside Richie, which only makes it feel worse when he says—

“Can we just…” The flyer is shaking in his hand and when Stan clenches his fist, the paper starts to crumple in his grip. “Can we just pretend we’re normal, for once?” He asks in a swooping exhale.

Richie flinches like he’s been punched. He takes an unsteady step back and tries to reel his heart back up from where it’s dropped into his stomach. He finally rips the flyer from Stan’s hand, and Stan lets him. Richie cradles the paper close to his chest, as if it might protect him even though the damage is already done.

“Normal?” Richie spits.

Stan looks away and the annoyance radiating off him starts to blend with discomfort. Not because he’s hurt Richie, though. No, because this is a conversation he doesn’t want to have, and Richie knows it.

“Telling your parents we’re ‘just roommates’ isn’t normal enough for you?” Richie blinks and realizes tears are pricking the corner of his eyes. He swallows and tilts his head back briefly to keep them at bay as long as he can.

“Richie—?”

“You don’t let me hold your hand on campus, and god forbid I kiss you in public,” Richie snarls. “That’s not _normal_ enough for you?” Richie is seething now, and he feels lightheaded with the anger swirling inside him. “No one but _Bill_ knowing about isn’t _normal_ enough for you, Stan?!”

Stan still won’t look at him, and finally something inside Richie fractures. His heart, maybe. Or possibly just his desire to keep trying.

“Fuck you,” he snaps. He balls the paper up and throws it at Stan’s feet. “Fuck you, Stanley Uris.” Richie turns back to the hallway, stumbling over his shaking legs as he goes. He yanks his jacket off the coat rack so hard it threatens to topple over. With shaking fingers, he takes his keys from where they hang by the door.

With his hand on the doorknob, he freezes. He waits. For something, _anything_. Waits for Stan’s voice to call after him, or for Stan’s footsteps running toward him. An apology or a goodbye or _anything_.

When a minute passes and Richie listens to Stan go to the kitchen instead of the hallway, Richie sighs.

He opens the door.


	3. They're Antithetical to the Poetry of Fear [Bichie] {T}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for hannah, yet again! i combined two of the prompts she sent in for this one! 
> 
> for what it's worth, i picture this as being set after the 2017 canon timeline, somewhere in the late 90s--hence, no cellphone mentioned bc they wouldn't have a clock on them anyway 
> 
> anywho, enjoy!

Bill’s back is sore, his butt is numb, and there’s a kink in his neck. He sighs and stares at the wall across from him, just as he’s been doing for god knows how many hours now. Distantly, he hears the kitchen clock chime—a grandfather clock, a gift from his father, something they keep around even though they don’t especially like it—signifying another hour has passed. Bill doesn’t have his watch on him, so he’s not sure what time it is. Judging by the vague colors of a sunset outside, he figures it’s late enough for dinner.

“Richie,” Bill calls out as he starts to stand. His bones creak and his joints groan as he goes, but he powers through the discomfort. “I’m g-going to make dinner, o-o-okay?”  He waits with his ear tilted toward the door for an answer he knows won’t come. He waits it out longer than he really needs to, and the more minutes that pass the less he can bring himself to stand there. He sighs. “P-please don’t shut me out, R-Richie,” he adds before heading toward the kitchen.

He busies himself with cooking dinner, but as he starts to gather the ingredients he realizes he can’t focus for shit. He stares at the package of stir-fry in his hand, and shakes his head. He shoves it back into the freezer and digs around for a frozen pizza instead.

He’s just popped the large supreme into the oven when soft footfalls on the linoleum catch his attention. He takes a moment to set the timer then turns to face his boyfriend.

Richie stands in the doorway of the kitchen, looking as awful as he probably feels. His hair is a worse mess than usual, not only curly and stuck to his skin with sweat but tangled beyond help. His eyes are red and swollen, and his cheeks are streaked with tears. He’s got a blanket thrown around his shoulders and any other time, it’d be endearingly sweet—it only makes Bill’s chest hurt, here and now.

Bill crosses the kitchen in a few careful strides, and waits until Richie nods at him before wrapping up the other in a tight hug. He curls one hand around the back of Richie’s neck and squeezes.

“W-want to talk about it?” Bill asks

Richie stiffens, but eventually nods. Awkwardly but unwilling to separate, together they shuffle toward the dining room table. Bill pulls two chairs closer together and Richie practically collapses into one of them. Once Bill is sure Richie isn’t going to completely fall to the floor, he steps back.

“Want something to d-drink?” Bill asks.

Richie shrugs, but when Bill turns away he finally speaks. “Water,” he requests, hardly more than a croak.

Bill gets them each a glass before sitting beside Richie.

Then, he waits.

Richie drinks his entire glass of water in three huge gulps, and when Bill pushes his own cup over Richie practically dives for it. He drinks it just as eagerly, but slows once it’s about half empty. He sets it aside with a deep sigh, and starts to look a little less awful. Not his usual self, not by a long shot, but it’s something.

Bill waits.

Richie lets out a wet laugh. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now,” he admits.

Bill swallows his nerves. “I’m always h-here for you, you know th-th-that.”

Richie nods. “I know.” He rubs the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his nose, then makes a face. “I must look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Bill agrees. “You do.” He smiles at Richie, and his heart settles into a more normal pace when Richie smiles back.

Richie sighs and deflates. He tenses when Bill lays a hand on his shoulder but doesn’t shrug off the touch. “It was… dreams. Nightmares,” he amends.

Bill frowns, not at Richie but at his words. It’s been a long time since the nightmares plagued either of them; they’ve all been lucky. Bill hasn’t ever believed they’d be free of the nightmares for good but he’d been… hopeful. Hopeful that they just wouldn’t come back, or wouldn’t be more than unmemorable wisps. Memories impossible to remember.

“It’s really vague.” Richie admits, staring at his hands in his lap. “But it was also… freakishly vivid, you know?” Richie doesn’t look up at him. “We were in the sewer again, but… Ben, Mike, Bev, Stan, and Eddie, they were all dead. They were already floating.” Richie’s eyes go foggy behind his glasses, as if he’s back in the nightmare right then. “It was down to just me and you and—I couldn’t stop It. I couldn’t save you.”

Tears well in Richie’s eyes again. Before he can think better of it, Bill is off his chair and onto his knees. It’s awkward, but he fits between Richie’s legs and wraps him up in a hug. He secures his arms around Richie’s waist and squeezes.

“I’m a-alive,” Bill whispers. “I’m here.”

A shaking hand starts to comb through his hair. “Yeah,” Richie says through his renewed tears. “You are.” Richie bends over and wraps him arms over Bill’s shoulders and his tears fall into Bill’s hair.

“S-so are you.”

Richie laughs. “Yeah, I am,” he repeats. “We are.”

Bill smiles, pressing his grin into Richie’s stomach. “We a-are,” he agrees.


	4. As Long as There are Stars Above You [Stozier] {T+}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie got a tattoo. 
> 
> Stan is... well, Richie's not sure what Stan is. 
> 
> Turned on, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an older one that hannah prompted that i only JUST now got around to finishing bc it took me so long to find a good song for these two!! 
> 
> the song is [david bowie's verison of 'god only knows'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOadV_CPT_k).
> 
> enjoy!

“Take off your shirt.”

Richie looks up with a lewd grin. “Why, Stanley, I do declare!” He speaks in a loud, Southern accent and fans at his face with the magazine he’s holding. “Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay, good sir?” He asks with a wink. Even so, he tosses the magazine aside and starts on the buttons of his flannel. By the time he stands up, he’s got the first three buttons undone and he realizes Stan is staring at him intently. Unnervingly so. “Uh… Stan?”

“Just take it off!” Stan shouts. He doesn’t bother waiting for Richie to resume; instead he steps forward and corners Richie against the nearby wall, and starts undoing the buttons on his own. Richie lets his hands fall to the side and watches Stan’s deft fingers make quick work of the buttons.

“You’re acting weird,” Richie observes.

Stan scowls. “I am not,” he insists. His blush, before faint and barely there, worsens. He pauses in his motions and Richie realizes Stan’s hands are shaking.

“You are.” Richie shoots back. “What’s going on?”

Stan lets out a frustrated, animalistic keen and starts on the buttons with renewed fervor. He’s got so much force behind his touch, Richie is amazed he doesn’t just rip the flannel open. Richie lets him continue, too shocked to do anything else. Stan eventually finishes with the buttons and sets his sights on the hem of Richie’s undershirt. He yanks that up next, and obscures Richie’s sight and knocks his glasses askew in the process.

Stan doesn’t care about that though.

“You… _you_.”

Richie squirms under Stan’s hold. “Jesus Christ, Stan. All this over a fucking tattoo?” He says, words muffled by his shirt. He can almost see through the fabric of his shirt, but not enough to see Stan’s free hand moving. He starts when fingertips brush over the still tender skin of his side.

“Stan,” Richie says carefully. “Don’t freak out.”

That at least earns him a huff that could almost be a laugh. Other than that, though, Stan doesn’t answer. He grazes his touch over the tattoo again, and again, and again. Always feather-light in his touch, always careful, always driving Richie absolutely _insane_.

It’s not a very intricate tattoo, and it’s not anything lewd (something that surprised all the rest of the Losers) but it does make a statement. It’s fairly large, and takes up most of his side and part of his stomach. The ribbon of sheet music is stark black against his skin and wraps from his right hip all the way over to his belly button.

Suddenly, Richie can see again—mostly. His glasses sit proper on his face but they’re smudged as all get out, and he scowls. He makes due, because Stan is still holding the hem of his shirt and still looking at the tattoo like it holds all the secrets to the universe. Or maybe like it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. Richie would really prefer the former.

Stan is still pink in the cheeks, and his breathing is coming in fast and short pants.

“Stan?” Richie tries. He peels Stan’s hand from his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles. As soon as his tattoo disappears from sight, Stan’s gaze snaps back up to Richie’s face. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Richie. Stan stands there, so Richie stands there. The longer it goes on, the more stupid Richie feels, the more chastised, the more—

“It looks good.”

Wait, wait?

“What?” Richie asks, stunned.

Stan nods down at the ink. “It looks good,” he says again. His voice is strangled and thin. “Is that…?”

“ _God Only Knows_? Yeah, of course.” Richie’s stunned look shifts to suspicious instantly. The second verse of the David Bowie version— _their song_ , what else would it be, Richie thinks. “What, no lecture?” He asks cautiously. He’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Stan is acting weird. He’s still blushing and still wide-eyed and still breathing heavy. “Why,” Richie drawls. “Does Stan the Man have a _thing_ for tattoos? Is that why you’ve never wanted me to get one? Afraid I’d become completely impossible to resist?” Richie bats his eyes at Stan and gets an eyeroll in response.

“No,” Stan assures. “I never wanted you to get a tattoo because I always thought you’d get something _stupid_ , and I didn’t want to be dating the asshole with a tattoo on his face or something.”

Richie snickers. “But you _do_ think it’s hot, don’t you?”

Stan’s lips clamp shut and he shakes his head furiously.

“I think you do,” Richie teases. He reaches out and secures his hands to Stan’s hips. He hauls him in so they’re pressed groin to groin, and smirks. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He murmurs the words against Stan’s lips. “Seemed weird to just tell you over the phone.”

Stan nods once and his lips barely brush Richie’s in an almost-kiss. “It’s okay,” he replies, hoarse. “I can’t believe I was gone for two weeks and this is what happened.” He adds with a half laugh.

“You’re about ninety percent of my impulse control, Stan. You know this.” Richie retorts, even though the tattoo wasn’t much of an impulse at all. Or rather, the idea of it wasn’t; he’s had this idea in his backpocket for years. The whole actually _getting_ it part, that was impulsive. He’d done it specifically because Stan wasn’t around to stop him. “Do you like it, though?” Richie is half-genuine, half-teasing.

Stan’s blush, which had finally started to face, returns tenfold. “Yes,” he grits out. “I trust you understand how permanent this is, too, and—?”

“It’s as permanent as we are,” Richie tells him simply.

Stan’s mouth snaps shut with a sharp _click_.

“I love you.” Richie adds.

His answer is a bruising kiss that slams him back against the wall and Stan’s hands slipping under his shirt. Ever gentle, Stan rubs his hand over the tattoo and moans. He traces the bars and stops on individual notes that he knows by heart. He moans again and pushes his hips against Richie’s.

“I knew it,” Richie gasps when the kiss breaks. “I knew you had a thing for tattoos.”

Stan shakes his head before diving down to kiss along Richie’s neck. “No,” he says, words muffled by Richie’s skin. “Just a thing for you.”

 

_God only knows what I’d be without you._


	5. Bring it On Home to Me [Stozier] {T+}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is late coming home; Richie is worried.

Richie is on him the minute he steps through the door. Stan barely has time to sling his jacket over a hook by the door and set his bag on the floor before he’s got an armful of Richie. Stan reacts swiftly and curls his arms around his boyfriend easily. Richie clings to him like a vice, and Stan waits him out until Richie leans back enough so he’s no longer crushing Stan’s ribs.

“Want to tell me what that’s all about?” Stan asks gently. He rubs soothing circles into the dip of Richie’s back, having already slid his hands under his boyfriend’s shirt. Richie pouts back at him and looks away. Stan watches him curiously and catalogs the numerous nuances of his expression.

Richie is flushed pink and it makes his freckles stand out; his lower lip is stuck out and heavy in a pout. He won’t meet Stan’s gaze but Stan can see the embarrassed, stricken gleam in the deep brown eyes. Richie’s hair is a mess, more so than usual, like he’s been tugging at it. His clothes are wrinkled, which isn’t unusual in and of itself but certainly adds to the overall picture Richie makes.

“Richie.” Stan says carefully. “Were you worried?” He guides Richie toward the living room with careful, calculated steps. Richie makes a low, whimpering sound deep in his throat as he lets Stan push him to sit on the couch. “Why were you worried?” Stan asks as he sits, before pulling Richie into his lap.

Richie tucks his face against Stan’s neck and wraps around him again. It’s an awkward angle since they’re both so tall and gangly, but Stan makes no move to adjust. He’s content with Richie in his lap, lanky limbs be damned. His patience wears a little thing far quicker than usual, though, when Richie still doesn’t see fit to give him an answer.

“Richie.” Stan says again. “Use your words.” He reluctantly takes a hand from Richie’s back to grip his chin. With a gentle tug he makes Richie look at him. Richie’s blush is worse and there’s a scared glimmer in his eyes that makes Stan sigh. “Richie, please?” He coaxes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He kisses Richie sweetly and practically pulls the words from Richie’s lip as he pulls back from the kiss.

“You were late.” Richie says in a rush. “You didn’t let me know.” He releases his near deathgrip on Stan’s shoulders to rub at his eyes. “Today was just... really shitty, okay? And I thought you’d be home but you  _weren’t._ And yeah, I started to worry!” Richie’s voice grows smaller after the brief crescendo. “I was worried, cause you never forget to tell me.”

Stan pulls Richie in for another delicate kiss. “I know, I’m sorry, Richie.” He kisses each of Richie’s cheeks and then the tip of his nose. “I got caught up in my work, and by the time I thought to let you know I was almost home anyway.”

“It’s okay.” Richie says as he preens under Stan’s lips.

“You sure?” Stan asks. He finally lets go of Richie’s chin and returns his touch to his back, instead. Instead of sliding up the knobs of Richie’s spine, Stan slides down to the waist band of his jeans. 

“I’m sure.” Richie says, even as he pushes into the touch. “You’re home, that’s what matters.”

Stan hums in agreement and seals his lips over Richie’s pulse point. “Sorry I worried you,” he murmurs. “Even though, you are so cute when you’re all worried. I’m still sorry.” He kisses the reddish purple bruise in a makeshift apology, and Richie squirms in his lap.

“Can I make it up to you?” Stan asks after he’s kissed his way up Richie’s neck to his ear. “Will you let me?”

Richie’s arms latch around Stan’s neck and he nods so vigorously he nearly knocks their heads together. “Yes, please,  _sir,_ yes please.” 

Stan grins against Richie’s curls. “Of course.” 


	6. Fortune, or Attention, or Applause [Tozenbroughis] {M}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is misbehaving. Stan and Bill need to teach him a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some dual dom stan and bill taking care of sub richie!

Stan looks up as the front door slams. He looks over at the other end of the couch, where Bill sits and looks just as perplexed. With identical, nearly-silent sighs, Stan and Bill both rise from the couch and follow the sound of stomping footsteps. They end up at the threshold of the spare bedroom and shoulder-to-shoulder they watch Richie pace around the room. 

His jacket is tossed onto the bed and his messenger bag is in a haphazard heap at Stan’s feet. Richie’s muttering to himself, though neither Stan or Bill can quite make out what he’s saying. Every few minutes he’ll slow down before picking up his pace again. It’s dizzying to watch, and Stan’s patience runs out first. 

“Richie.”

The pacing stops at least, and the mumbling trails off shortly after. With traces of sheepish apprehension, Richie turns to face his boyfriends. 

“What’s wrong?”

Richie shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. Just a shitty day.”

Stan looks at Bill, who just barely glances at him from the corner of his eyes. Bill bites his lip briefly before taking a cautious step into the room. “Ruh-Richie. What’s wrong?” He asks again. 

As they wait for an answer, Stan bends to pick Richie’s bag from the floor. He brings it into the room with him and sets it on the desk beside the door, mindful of Bill’s sketches scattered about. Then he stands next to Bill, once more bumping shoulders, as they stare at Richie.

Stan takes stock of him, and reigns in the urge to shake his head–fond and exasperated. Richie’s clothes are wrinkled and there’s a stain, probably some kind of sauce, at the collar of his shirt. There’s a new tear in the knee of Richie’s jeans that will surely be covered with a tacky patch in no time. Stan notices Richie is still wearing his shoes, and makes a mental note to mention it to Bill. 

“Richie.” Stan says again, tone rougher and sharper. “Talk to us.”

Richie takes his hands out of his pockets only to cross his arms tight over his chest. “No, it’s nothing.”

“What did Stan just suh-say?” Bill asks in his own stern voice. There’s always a niggling sense of unfairness when he and Bill both play bad cop, for lack of a better term, but sometimes it’s what Richie needs. 

Richie looks down at the floor, and Stan quietly delights in the brief look of panic on his face when he realizes he’s still got his dirty chucks on. He doesn’t look up though, and doesn’t uncross his arms. If anything, he tenses up worse and frowns harder.

Stan frowns back. “Talk to us.” He gently commands.

Richie scoffs and says, “come over here and  _make_  me, if you’re so fucking worried about it.” He looks off to the side and the quiver in his lower lip tells Stan he’s already regretting the words. He’s so tense he’s starting to shake, and Stan wants nothing more than to help Richie. But only if Richie will let him.

Bill looks over at Stan, and they share a look and then a nod. Together they step toward Richie slowly as though they’re approaching a spooked animal. The closer they get the more Richie seems to shrink in on himself, but he doesn’t back away.

“It’s okay,” Bill says quietly. He reaches for Richie’s shirt; it’s a garish, oversized, neon-printed thing that Stan secretly adores. He watches Bill push it down Richie’s arms and toss it aside onto the bed. Then Bill takes Richie’s undershirt by the hem and lifts it slowly.

Richie’s arms finally uncross and he raises them obediently over his head instead. Once he’s shirtless, his arms hang at his sides, limp. 

Stan steps forward then and goes for Richie’s belt. “Will you tell us what’s wrong?” He asks quietly. He passes the belt to Bill once it’s off Richie’s hips. Immediately his jeans start to sag, because he can’t seem to buy pants that fit properly. 

“No?” Stan shakes his head. “That’s okay, take your time.” He pushes at Richie’s jeans until they pool at his ankles, and Bill helps Richie to step out of them. “What do you need?” Stan asks instead. “Can you tell us that?” 

Bill nods and leans in to brush a kiss over Richie’s cheek. “C’mon, baby, tell us what you need.” He kneels then and unties Richie’s shoes and helps him out of those and his socks.

Richie shudders but nods. 

“Do you need to be pu-punished?” Bill asks. “Or do you want suh-something sweet?”

“Or both.” Stan supplies, unable to help a grin. Bill shoots him a look that’s equal part annoyed and amused. 

“Both.” Richie requests, his eyes still focused on the ground. 

“Can we take this to our bedroom?” Bill asks. When Richie nods, Stan takes one hand and Bill takes the other and together they guide him out of the spare room. Stan flicks off the light as they go, and like a chain they walk down the hall to the master bedroom.

Stan wonders at the picture they made: Bill in his everyday lazy clothes of baggy, almost too-short sweats and a faded t-shirt; Richie, almost entirely naked save for his grey briefs clinging to his body and his half hard erection; Stan at the end, still in his work clothes of neatly pressed slacks and a simple checkered button-down. 

They probably look ridiculous, but Stan likes it. He like the vulnerability Richie lets them see, him stripped down and open for them both. Not to mention there’s something just deliciously debauched about taking Richie apart while Stan and Bill are still fully clothed. 

“On the bed,” Stan commands once they’re in their shared room. Bill gets on first and reclines against the pillows. He spreads his arms and immediately Richie goes to him. He presses into the embrace with his chest against Bill’s. Stan climbs on next, thankful for their enormous bed as he settles in behind Richie.

He reaches out and tugs on Richie’s hips with both hands, until Richie rises on his knees with his ass in the air. Appreciatively, Stan pats Richie’s ass lightly. He slides his fingers under the waistband of Richie’s briefs and starts to tug them down slowly.

Before he or Bill can ask for a color, Richie hikes his ass higher in the air with a quiet, breathless noise. Stan smirks and Bill catches his eye with a matching expression. 

“You’re gonna be guh-good for us, now, aren’t you?” Bill asks as he strokes Richie’s hair. Richie nods and pushes into Bill’s touch like a cat, desperate for affection. Bill grins and tugs once, just lightly, before resuming his leisurely stroking. 

Stan watches it all as he pulls Richie’s briefs down to his knees and leaves them there. He finally slides his gaze down to Richie’s ass and takes in the view. “How many do you think he deserves, Bill?” He taps one of Richie’s cheeks idly as he thinks it over. 

“Well he did leave his sh-shoes on,” Bill points out. Richie whimpers and Bill shushes him with another tug to his hair. 

Stan nods. “And he was very rude, earlier.” He taps Richie’s ass a little harder and relishes the way he startles under the touch. “Let’s start with ten. Bill?”

“T-ten,” he agrees. Richie whimpers again and this time Bill kisses the sound from his lips, sucks the next one from his mouth too. “You ready, baby?”

Richie nods and hides his face against Bill’s neck. Stan takes a moment to run his hands down the curve of Richie’s back, traces the bumps of his spine and pauses at each and every mole on his skin.

“You’ll count them off,” Stan says and it’s clear he’s speaking to Richie even if he doesn’t specify. “I’ll start on three.”

Richie keens and even though the sound is muffled against Bill’s skin, Stan hears it all the same. He places his palm flat against Richie’s ass and rubs his thumb in soothing circles. 

“One.” Stan trails his other hand along the crease of skin where ass meets thigh. Richie shivers and pushes back into the touch with a desperate whine. “Two.” Stan slides his hand from Richie’s ass to curl around his hip and hold him tight. Before he says  _three_  he brings down his other hand suddenly and hard against Richie’s left cheek.

Richie cries out, still with his face hidden against Bill’s neck, and squirms. With a little help from Bill, Richie raises his head long enough to clearly say, “one,” in a quivering voice. Bill kisses his cheek as a reward and Stan catches him murmuring to Richie softly.

“So good, babe. You’re doing good.”

As Bill whispers encouragements to Richie, Stan brings his hand down again, this time on the right cheek. It’s sudden and Richie jumps from the force. This time as he counts, it comes out as a frantic moan. 

“Two!” 

Stan nods approvingly and admires the flushed red skin underneath his palm. He waits for Richie’s breathing to even out before continuing. He delivers slaps three, four, and five in rapid succession, pausing between them just long enough to let Richie count them off. 

Richie shudders again when Stan grazes his fingertips over the tender skin. “Please,” he mutters when Stan has, evidently, waited too long. Stan looks over Richie’s shoulder to Bill, who nods in return.

Stan finally lets go of his bruising hold on Richie’s hip and instead takes Richie’s ass in his hands and squeezes. Richie moans tries to twist away from the touch, but Bill holds him in place with gentle arms around him. 

“Five more,” Stan says. “You’re doing so good, Richie.” He lets go of Richie’s ass and sits back just to make Richie wait a little longer. Just when Richie starts to writhe, just as he starts to make eager, needy little noises–only then does Stan start again.

He brings his right hand down harder than the times before and the word  _“six!”_  is barely off Richie’s tongue before Stan slaps with the same force on Richie’s other cheek. Red blooms under his hand and Richie jumps away from the touch for a second before pushing back. 

“Richie,” Bill whispers.

“Seven!” Richie shouts before casting a look over his shoulder. He’s worrying his lip and his eyes are wide, and he  _almost_  looks like he wants to be reprimanded. But more than that, he looks tired and flushed and Stan’s own dick is hard in his pants, and he’s sure Bill is in the same boat. 

Stan smirks and nods. “Good boy.” 

Richie sighs and falls into Bill again. 

“Almost done,” Stan says. “You’re being very good for us, Richie.”

Richie nods and pushes his ass up higher. “Please,” he whimpers again. 

Stan spanks Richie again and immediately grips the sore skin in his hand just to hear Richie trip over shouting out “eight!” Stan squeezes the handful again before letting go.

The next slap is a little lighter: not soft, but not as sharp, practically a love-tap compared to slaps six and seven. Richie shakily mutters “nine,” and his body starts to rock back and forth. Stan doesn’t need to look to know Richie is grinding his probably hard, leaking cock against Bill’s lap. Stan also doesn’t need to reprimand Richie--he knows better than to come without permission. 

“One more.” Stan says, and immediately brings his hand down one more time. He does it hard, and doesn’t favor one cheek. He slaps the middle of Richie’s ass so the pain is even and the blush on his skin is balanced. Richie jumps again and chokes out,

“Ten, fuck, Stan, Bill,  _please_.” 

Stan catches Bill gaze and they smirk at each other. With careful hands, Stan pulls Richie up by his hips and Bill follows. Stan molds himself against Richie’s back and listens intently when Richie sucks in a hiss of air as Stan’s belt buckle hits his abused ass. 

“So good.” Stan says as he kisses Richie’s shoulder sweetly. Richie opens his mouth to reply but Bill curls his hand around Richie’s straining dick in the same moment, and steals the words from his mouth instead. “Come on, Richie.” Stan says quietly.

“C’mon, baby.” Bill speaks slowly right against Richie’s lips. “You were so good for us. Keep it up, babe, you’re almost there.”

Richie nods jerkily and his hips rock between the sensations of Stan against his ass and Bill’s hand around his cock. Stan pushes forward so that Richie can feel the outline of his own erection and Richie whimpers in response. 

“Come for us, Richie.” Stan says in his ear. “Do it.” 

Richie keens and throws his head back against Stan’s shoulder, and comes. He fucks into Bill’s fist and comes in long spurts across Bill’s arm and the bedspread. Richie shakes after he finishes and slowly, Stan lowers Richie to the bed, mindful of the spunk on the sheets. Bill settles beside him and Stan slides off the bed to stare down at his boyfriends. 

“Richie?” Bill starts. He brushes a stray curl from Richie’s face. 

“Mm?” 

“Color.” Stan says. 

“Green.” Richie says as he burrows more into the pillow. He rolls onto his stomach and right into the wet spot much to Stan’s annoyance. Words spoken into the pillow, Richie continues. “I’m sorry about earlier. It was just a shitty day at work, and I didn’t sleep good last night. I was cranky.” 

Stan nods and bends down to kiss Richie’s forehead. “Get some sleep. I’ll start dinner.” He ruffles Richie’s hair and leans over for a kiss from Bill as well. “Stay with him?”

Bill nods, already settling down and wrapping his arms around Richie again. 

Stan stands up straight and takes a moment to admire the two on the bed. Bill grins up at him as Richie starts to snore quietly. Bill mouths,  _“love you”_  and Stan smiles back. 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to send my prompts at [my tumblr](http://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/ask)! 
> 
> here are the posts you can choose prompts from: [X](http://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/166734265641/dialogue-prompts) [X](http://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/166734987506/drabble-list-2)
> 
> you can send in any of the following pairings: stozier, reddie, bichie, tozenbrak/redbill, and basically any combination of bill/eddie/richie/stan!


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